The Red Tree
by Chloe Veverka
Summary: When Angelina was small, she visited a hurt red tree. Later on, she visits the same tree, fallen. Follows DH ending.


Disclaimer: I do not own _Harry Potter_; I'm simply a fan who loves the _HP _universe.

Spoilers: Follows the end of _The Deathly Hollows_.

Author's Note: This is something I wrote right before seeing _HP 7 Part II _in the theaters for the first time. Even though I'd read the book so long ago, the pain felt fresh even more seeing it on the screen. Here's my attempt at getting to that through Angelina's eyes.

xx

The Red Tree

That first time, when the smell of healing spells and ointments hit her tiny nose, she instantly believed that she never wanted to step foot across the clinic's threshold ever again. It took some effort to make the door yield; she pressed both hands against the old door and leaned all her weight onto it so it would give. Biting her lip, she poked her head through the newly-created crack. The smell hit her more powerfully than she anticipated, and her body withdrew into the hallway in self-defense. Older Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs walked past her, their taller bodies shadowing over her in her a-little-too-big robes. Angelina breathed deeply once, twice. She drew her hands into fists. With one last deep breath, she stood up straight, flipped her small braids behind her shoulders, and walked tall into the clinic.

The moment she was inside, her eyes roamed the rows of beds with crisp sheets and pillow cases. Occasionally, a bed would cross her eye's line where the occupant slept or shifted or moaned. The longer her eyes traveled, catching the glint of a jar or receptacles with bloody bandages draped over the edges, Angelina lost her nerve. It was when she finally spied a bed farther into the room that she saw a tuft of red hair peak out from under some covers. She felt her nerve grow, and she stepped forward. Each step dragged her witch robes along the ground, and she used the sleeves' length to run her thumb along her nails in nervousness. She really didn't like being there.

When she arrived at the deep green sea of linen with the little red tree growing from its oceans, Angelina pulled a chair up to its side. She had to get on her tip toes a bit in order to land in the chair, but once she was successful, she turned her attention to the bedfellow. No movement aside from the rise and fall of breathing. She cleared her throat and waited expectantly. There's no way he couldn't have heard her... Still, the bed's occupant remained unresponsive. Finally, she spoke.

"Fred!" she whispered.

Nothing. The red tree stood still, the sea moving up and down in soft waves.

"Fred Weasley!" she whispered loudly again.

The tree seemed moved by a soft wind.

"Fred Weasley, are you awake?"

"...No..." a soft, raspy male voice answered, muffled.

A quick bright smile lit her face at this. "Well of course you are. You couldn't say so if you were."

"Unless you've gone mental. In that case, this is all your imagination."  
>"That's just silly. Why would I waste time thinking you and I in a clinic?"<p>

"I'm not the mental one, I don't know why the mental do what they do."

"Would you stop calling me that?"

"Only if you go away. I'm dying," Fred complained, shifting beneath the blanket.

Angelina looked down at her lap, noticing that her knuckles were strongly clutching her skirt, rumpling it with a strength she hadn't realized. She immediately released her clothes and smoothed them out, soothing her look and her instinctive frazzledness.

"Oh no you're not," she retorted. "You're fine."

Fred sat up in the bed, baring his face to her. A large bandage covered his cheek, and Angelina could see the edges of a burn from the cotton. "Am not!"

She winced. "Well...okay. Maybe not completely."

Fred rolled his eyes and threw the blanket back over his head. "Smart one, you are."

Angelina frowned at this. Hopping down from the chair, she grabbed the edge of the blanket and pulled it off of Fred, who turned to her with shock. "I *am* smart, thank you very much! So don't call me names like that. And I meant that it...your face... doesn't look that bad."

"Not bad? Half my face got burned! Stupid, stupid parchment, making that spell backfire like that..." he muttered to himself, his attitude dropping to a moment of self-deprecation. Angelina watched him judge himself and felt a strange desire to make him feel better. But the cloud around Fred's eyes broke when he saw her hands' movements, drawing her hair over her shoulder. His face crumpled into displaced anger. "Who asked you, anyways? Why do you care? It's not like we're friends!" Fred responded, subconsciously stroking his injury.

Angelina faltered at this. "Well...of course we are!"

"Says who?"

"Says me!"

"Well, lot of credibility you've got!"

"What? I...I don't know what that means."

"It means we just met a few months ago. You're not my friend-you're just some stupid girl butting her face in my business!"

Angelina felt the anger rise within her. "I already told you! I'm not stupid! And look who's calling who 'stupid'! I'm not the one doing spells, breaking into Mr. Filch's office, making mischief that everyone knows is against the rules! I'm not the one who got caught simply because I nearly blew my face off! So don't call *me* stupid!" she responded.

"It's not my fault! There was simply a miscalculation," Fred defended.

"Sure! You treated the paper like a spell roll when it looks more like a map to me" she waved off, not noticing how her suggestion made his eyes light up in realization. "And that's beside the point! Here I come all the way from the dorm to see if you're all right, and here you are yelling at me! I didn't do anything wrong except want to make sure you're okay!"

"Why do you even care?"

"Because it looked like it hurt!" she yelled. Fred quickly shut his mouth. She was so angry, she had shouted the last part loud enough to draw everyone's attention in the clinic. It was then that Fred realized she was out of breath. She was flustered. She didn't look like she was going to go running, crying, like he'd hoped she would so he could have peace to be down in the dumps. Instead, she looked ready to fight him. And she looked pretty cute all the while.

When she realized she'd shouted, her tiny hands flew to cover her mouth. The brief wave of shame quickly passed and she set her hands on his blanket in an area where she knew she wasn't touching him. "I hate hospitals. I hate them a lot. They smell funny. They're so plain-looking, all white and clean and smelly like cleaning supplies. And everyone's sick or sad or hurting. It's no fun." When she noticed the unspoken curiosity in his eyes, she replied, "I've had sick family members," and left it at that. "So I thought I'd come by and say hi. I'd want someone to do that for me if I were the one in that bed."

Fred looked down at his hands this time, feeling increasingly bad at yelling at her, but not wanting to show that too much. "But you don't know me that well."

Angelina shrugged and sat back down. "It's only first year, what'd you expect? Besides, I know you a little. We all know each other a little. And I'd want someone to come say hi to me." She smiled brightly at him. "So hi, Fred."

He hesitated, but finally said, "Hi, Angelina."

"Well. There, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

"The hardest thing I've ever done. Ever."

She ignored the sarcasm. "Was beginning to wonder if you knew my name."

"'Course. You did that really great pass with the Quidditch the first week."

"You noticed?"

"Bloody hell, of course I did! Was brilliant! But only second-rate compared to me and George."

"You guys are really good," she admitted. She giggled when it looked like Fred was instantly blushing. "Maybe we'll all play on the Quidditch team when openings come up."

"That'd be a good time, maybe," he said shyly. A bit of silence passed between them-Fred looking at his blanket, Angelina looking at the bandage on his face. She leaned forward and placed her hand on his shoulder, making him look up.

"It'll heal quick. Besides, everyone's talking about you and George like crazy. You've only gotten more popular, if that helps."

Fred shrugged, which let him feel the pressure of her hand that much more distinctly. "It's cool, I guess."

She nodded. "Well, that's all for me." She hopped down and began to walk away from Fred's bed.

"Wait!" he called out. Angelina looked over her shoulder, seeing Fred stare at her with an indescribable glint in his eyes. "I'll see you later?" Despite the coolness he tried to pass, there was enough inflection to make his question sincere.

Angelina smiled, then shrugged nonchalantly. "I guess we'll have to wait and see."

It took all of Angelina's strength to keep her cool aloofness going all the way to the door. When she ducked around its edge, she breathed deeply, glad to have finally escaped the scary scent of the clinic. Funny enough, with Fred inside, it didn't seem nearly as scary as it usually did.

When she disappeared around the corner, Fred breathed deeply, glad to have finally escaped her eyes. He wasn't expecting that. He wasn't expecting her. And he wasn't expecting how much he hoped she'd say hi the next time they ran into each other.

xx

It wasn't until sometime after her first-year clinic visit to Fred that Angelina learned she had been right; the parchment had been a map after all. A map that she, the twins, and their lot would use countless times to sneak about campus. But on this dangerous night years later, the map burned in her mind; the mini footsteps becoming her larger ones as she tread under, around, and through secret tunnels to fight the Dark Lord's minions. Only now...

Now, the moments of silence scared her. They shouldn't, considering the past hours had been spent in loud explosions, ricocheting spells, and screaming. But this silence was the new reality. The smells still scared her. The sterility was replaced by dirt and blood and the signs of toil and war.

Funny enough, with Fred there, looking as peaceful as he did in death, death didn't seem nearly as scary as it usually did.

Her clothes were frayed, charred, and bloodied; she had no sleeves to hide her no-longer tiny hands in. The hands of a fighter. They alternated between shaking, the trauma of the battle catching up, and staying in clenched formation.

It took some time for her to wander over to where she knew his body was. Someone had gone around and covered the bodies with sheets, leaving the faces unveiled, so that it looked as if the fallen had merely been tucked into bed.

"Fred?" she whispered, tears running like rivers down her cheek. Stillness. "Fred Weasley," she tried again, no longer afraid to touch her hands to where she knew his was under the covers. A light from somewhere was catching a tuft of his hair, the red tree standing ever still. "Fred Weasley, are you awake?" she whispered loudly. Silence.

She squeezed his arm hard, sniffling harder to maintain the ability to breathe. "This is where you're supposed to tell me, 'no,' Fred," she gently reprimanded. Shakily, she took one hand and ran it through his hair. "You tell me I've gone mental. ...Though it's not like you haven't done that a million times." She sniffled louder. "And you finally tell me to go away because you're dying," she stumbled. She didn't protest when her knuckles froze, or when she began to sob. She buried herself into his side, crying into his neck, her body wracked with the pain of being so close, yet so far, from him.

When she pulled away, she laughed through her tears. "Sorry...Got you a bit wet." She sobbed again, but pulled herself together. "You know how much I've always hated these sorts of places. And this time...this time, Fred, it didn't seem like it hurt. It didn't look like you hurt. You look...you actually look happy right now. Restful. I'm...I'm so glad for that." And there she sat, her hands moving from resting on his hand to his arm to his cold forehead. All the time in the world couldn't interrupt her from what she knew would be her last moment of privacy with Fred. So she sat. She sat for a long while, keeping him company.

She startled when she heard voices not too far away start cheering, though she didn't know why. She looked back to her long-time friend, confidante, love. "Anyways, I thought I'd come by and say... I'd want someone...you... to see me if I were the one..." words failed her. She bit her lip, torn by the emotions that swelled in her aching, bruised soul. "This is the hardest thing I've ever done. Ever." Pulling her ruffled hair behind one shoulder, winding her fingers through it, she shook her head in determination. Leaning down, her lips pressed against Fred's cheek-the same one he had injured oh so many years ago. Upon pulling away, she kissed him briefly on his lips. Her courage was leaving her. This hurt too much. She pulled away, stepped away, began to walk, forcing the urge to run down into the pit of her stomach. No smells, no sounds made her want to flee this time. Only the finality of the situation. When she reached the door, she forced herself to stop. Breathing heavily through the pain, she forced herself to look over her shoulder. One last shared private moment.

Fred looked fast asleep. Like the grown-up version of the little boy she had visited, who she barely knew but who she'd wanted to know. She had to smile. "I'll see you later?" she whispered with the inflection she remembered from him years ago. With a final heartbroken, yet slow, slow sigh, she grinned at her friend before slipping through the door...

**xx**

Her feet carried her like lead at first. But the longer she could feel her heartbeat thudding in her chest, the greater the urge to run creeped up on her until she broke into a jog. The jog became a sprint. The sprint became a hard run. She didn't stop running until she broke through the door leading to Hogwarts court yard, bursting into rising sunlight where survivors of the battle were crying, rejoicing, clamoring to find friends and loved ones. She weaved among bodies, both the living and not. It took a few circles before she could find him, lingering near his family while still remaining detached. He was standing on solid ground near the dilapidated bridge, staring across the beautiful hillside away from the carnage. Angelina slowed her strides as she grew close, her breath heaving in the open air. The closer she drew to his stiff form, the more profound the markings on his arms grew-dark, finger-shaped bruises marked the skin unveiled by his rolled-up sleeves. Angelina couldn't decide whether they were caused during the battle or after, imagining perhaps Mr. Weasley or Percy using his strength to drag George away from his fallen other half.

She stepped next to George without speaking, bracing her not-so-tiny hands on her knees. Once her breath steadied, she turned to say something, anything, to the one person she could imagine in indescribable pain at the red tree's fall. When her eyes met his dark, cloudy ones, all words left her. So she let her hand speak for her as she reached up and took hold of his limp one. He didn't stir, but his quiet tears became a crescendo of sobs. Angelina wanted to say something so desperately. But the minute she opened her mouth, the dryness caught her by dim surprise and she began to cry again. They stood that way for a while-her sobbing hard yet softly, squeezing his hand; him sobbing loudly, physically unresponsive to her.

Eventually, it became too tiring to stand. Angelina wandered to a nearby large bolder and perched on it, curling her legs up so that she could rest her head on her arms and continue to cry. She thought her hiding place infallible until she felt George's hand on her shoulder. She thought she couldn't cry any harder until she felt his hand squeeze her and not let go. But she was wrong. The tears came harder, and she instantly and desperately grasped his hand, weaving her fingers with his.

In George's hand, Angelina's looked tiny by comparison. But it remained solid. George was expecting her, but not how strong she managed to remain. And Angelina had no plans to dwindle.


End file.
